End of the Line
by Snownut
Summary: For every season, there is an end. For every life-we reap what we sow.  The beginning of the end for House-a fitting end.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Title inspired by a line in Firefly. Takes off from after 'Wilson' and assumes House and Wilson are still sharing the loft—well into season 7's timeline. I got tired of waiting for TPTB to do what I want and decided to take matters into my own hands..._

_All medical mistakes belong to me and wikipedia._

_House/Wilson friendship, all characters included.  
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End of the Line_  
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It was late.

Later than he'd planned to be when he'd finished the last of his charting and shut his computer off around five. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose to try and ease the pressure building there. It was past ten now; he'd been waylaid by Doug Graham's unexpected reaction to chemo and then four-year-old Gracie Halloran's blood work had come back sooner than he'd expected. Her leukemia was back and he'd needed to get her treatment plan figured out before leaving for the night. He'd fled after meeting with her parents and dumped her on his PA—leaving her to get the little girl admitted and settled onto the pediatric oncology ward for the night. House's decrepit old car was already in the garage when he opened the door and eased his Volvo into its usual space. Sighing to himself as he put the car into park; he shut the radio off and killed the engine, staring into the darkness. All he wanted was food, beer and a couch to collapse on—in that order. Suppressing a grunt as he opened the door and levered himself out of the seat, he made his way around the back of the cars and along the wall until he reached the inside door and slapped the garage door opener on his way past. Listening to the door clank shut he moved the rest of the way into the mudroom where he tossed his briefcase onto the dryer and worked his way out of his dress shoes. He hung his coat up, and paused only to dig his phone and pager out before sliding down the hall in his stockinged feet.

"House?" he called; not really expecting an answer as he moved into the living room with only the tv's flickering light to guide his steps. Monday night football, it looked like.

House was asleep; sprawled bonelessly on the couch with his sneakered feet propped up on the table before him. He still clutched the remote gamely, and Wilson sighed reflexively.

Deciding to ignore House for the time being, he moved into the kitchen, shedding his pager and phone on the counter. He dug through the freezer; tossing a frozen container of soup into the microwave to thaw. That done, he surveyed his friend on the couch; noting the way his right hand was wrapped around the upper part of his thigh protectively. His right leg jutted out onto the table at an odd angle with one ankle crossed over the other. Judging by the way he gripped his thigh in his sleep, Wilson guessed he hadn't been asleep for long. He squinted in the flickering glow of the tv screen, noting the way House's jeans had ridden up to reveal a chalky white leg clad in a tube sock. A closer look at House's leg proved the ankle was swollen, as he could see vivid sock lines digging into the flesh above the ankle and Wilson moved to kneel beside his friend. He gently worked the leg of House's jeans up and poked at his ankle, noting the puffiness above the joint and the feel of the cool, dry skin beneath his fingertips. Edema. He looked up to find House was still lying exactly as he had been, his breath coming slowly and evenly.

Grasping the shoe laces, Wilson deftly untied them and supported House's foot by the ankle as he worked the sneaker off. He set the shoe aside and slipped in a pillow that he rested House's foot on before working the sock off. His ankle was puffy, as was the foot and calf. He shook his head then, moving back into the kitchen to grab an ice pack and place it over House's right ankle.

House started awake then; inhaling in surprise at the cold. His blue eyes blinked languidly at Wilson in puzzlement. "Whader youdoin?" he asked tiredly.

"Your leg's pretty puffy." Wilson told him. He grasped House's ankle with one hand and motioned for House to swing both legs onto the couch. He did so, with both hands wrapped around his right thigh to support the movement. Wilson set the pillow under his foot, and then tucked another under his knee. House blinked at him sleepily while he resituated the ice pack, and then untied House's other shoe and pulled it off. More edema. Closing his eyes briefly, he bit his lip and forced his expression to remain neutral.

"How long have you had edema?" he asked lightly, leaving House to come up with a witty mask for his concern. The microwave beeped on cue and Wilson busied himself with filling a bowl and popping the top off his beer bottle while House dragged the blanket from the back of the couch down to cover himself. He removed another ice pack from the freezer and flung it at House with more force than was actually necessary.

"Don't know." House mumbled finally, as he caught the pack and leaned forward to put it on his left ankle before he propped it on the arm rest. Wilson plunked his bowl down on the table, and leaned over to snatch the remote from House's chest. He grinned when House made a half-hearted grab at it before reclining on the couch again. He looked half awake, and Wilson bet that he'd be asleep again before the end of the game.

"Is this run-of-the-mill edema, or the kind I should schedule a workup for?" he asked as he dipped his spoon into the bowl and stirred idly. It was obvious that he needed a work up, really. But House needed the opening, and Wilson knew the remark would give House time to come up with a response. He scooped up a spoonful and blew on it before greedily sucking it down. To his surprise, when House did answer—it was with the truth, not a bawdy joke or a deflection.

"Leg hurts. Hurt all day." House admitted in a low voice. He was playing with the blanket when Wilson looked at him, but he met Wilson's gaze earnestly enough that Wilson nodded in reply.

"Did you check it out? Did you know it was swollen? What about your left leg?" he asked around another mouthful of soup.

House shrugged, and Wilson bit his lip. He hadn't known. And of course House hadn't checked it out. More importantly, House was scared. No jokes, no deflection—just the truth recited in monotone.

"You have no idea what happened?"

House shook his head while Wilson set aside his soup to grasp House's calf intently. At House's tight nod, he put each leg through a series of range of motion—unsurprised by the lack of flexion from the knee down on the right. Pulses were good on both, however, so whatever it was it could wait for him to finish his soup. Sinking down onto his chair again, he resumed his meal.

"What do you think it is?" he asked finally, and House sighed. He shrugged, and leaned back into the couch. His eyes glowed in the white light from the tv.

"I'm getting old." He conceded, though his tone was off. Wilson looked away, unaware why he felt he needed to do so, but cognizant of it nonetheless. He finished his soup, sipping every once in a while at his beer. He made a point of ignoring House while he scrolled through the TiVo offerings; finally choosing a pre-recorded _Dirty Jobs _that he switched to without so much as a single complaint from the couch. He laughed his way through one episode while he finished the last of his beer. Setting the bottle down beside his chair, he studied House quietly. He was lying on his back, legs stretched out along the length of the couch. His face was turned toward the tv screen, but his eyes were closed again. He hadn't made a sound even when Mike had groused his way through the artificial insemination of several Holsteins; hadn't even cracked a smile. He longed to ask House more questions—pepper him until House gave him more information to go on. Had the pain been neuropathy? Muscular? Burning? Stinging? Aching? Why now? Had it been going on for long? But House himself had seemed strangely apathetic, and Wilson felt himself unwilling to bring it up. It wasn't House's usual brand of deflection; it stung more of despair than it did of any real intent, and Wilson couldn't bring himself to ask. Whatever it was, it would keep for a little while.

Wilson smiled as he got to his feet and rinsed his bowl, threw his bottle into the recycling bin. House was out cold; he didn't even stir when Wilson took the trash out, or started the dishwasher. Wilson snatched the remote off the table and turned the sound down a fraction before pushing the blanket back and poking at the ice packs. Still cold, and the ankles beneath were still swollen, but fractionally less so. He shifted each pack so they were secured between House's feet. Setting the remote down on the table in House's reach, he snatched his pager and phone off the counter and made his way down to the bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson rummaged around in the dresser for a change of clothes and then secreted himself in the master bathroom. He cranked the shower on, and let the water warm while he slowly divested himself of tie, shirt and pants. Standing in his boxers and socks he brushed his teeth while studying his bottle of Wellbutrin standing on the counter. His eye darted over the name of his psychiatrist, lingered on the way his own name was spelled out in plain font and stuck securely onto the orange bottle.

In his mind's eye, he could see the array of House's pill bottles in his medicine cabinet. Citalopram for depression and anxiety, 40 mg. Gabapentin for the neuropathy, 20 mg. Ativan, 5 mg—as needed. Coumadin to dissipate any further clotting issues, 20 mg. Ibuprofen 800 mg for the pain, prn as well.

Despite Wilson's doubts in the beginning, House had been completely compliant with his new pain management regimen since Mayfield. It probably helped that he was no longer House's prescribing physician. He grinned to himself as he spit out the toothpaste and added mouthwash. He was doing better, too, he supposed. He was finally learning to trust his friend. Neither man had spoken of their living arrangements, and Wilson sensed they likely never would. They'd mutually agreed not to speak on the need for two grown men to live together. But the truth of the matter was that House was a middle aged ex-drug addict with mobility issues and a propensity toward psychiatric problems. Wilson was a thrice divorced philanderer who had serial relationships and spent far too much time focused on other peoples problems and not enough on his own. He'd told himself he was living with House to help out a friend, but in reality he didn't want to be alone any more than House did.

In hindsight, Wilson realized he hadn't really known House as well as he'd thought. He hadn't understood how difficult life with a disability truly was, and he was honest enough to admit to himself that he'd underestimated his friend for a long time. House maintained the ability to walk—but the leg's utility was truly limited. The surgery to debride the necrotic tissue from his leg had taken all of his _vastus lateralis_ and a good chunk of his _vastus intermedius_. Through PT, House had re-trained himself to extend the leg using the remaining _sartorius_ and _vastus medialis_. All four muscle groups tied into the knee at the patella and needed to work together to lift the leg. Understandably, given that he only had two remaining muscle groups he had difficulty in lifting the knee and ended up using a combination of gluteal and remaining thigh muscles to "swing" the leg with each step, which gave him his lopsided gait. The knee rarely moved, and he was unable to flex it to weight bear. To bend the knee required House to take the offending limb in his own hands and pull it into position. He couldn't pivot, couldn't stand without support on that one foot. He couldn't kneel, couldn't bend over, couldn't walk very far without assistance. There had been precious few times since the infarction that Wilson had seen him move without pain. After the Ketamine, House had undergone extensive PT to teach him how to work the remaining quad. In the years since, what little he had gained was further atrophied, as was the rest of the limb.

House slept on the left side of the bed to keep his right side to the door. He usually slept curled up on his left side or sprawled on his back with a therapeutic pillow under his right knee. He hadn't realized before House had moved in with him how much time he really spent sleeping. House at work would nap anywhere from two to four hours—depending on how tired he really was and how much he wanted to annoy Cuddy. But he'd never noticed how often he slept at home until he'd routinely come home to House asleep on the couch or sprawled in the arm chair. Just last week, he'd fallen asleep in the bath and had only awakened when Wilson had barged in to check on him.

At least he hadn't been mad about it.

Before, when the pain had gotten the best of him, House had spent an inordinate amount of time pacing. Now, everywhere he went he made an effort to get off his feet as quickly as possible. It was both heartening to know that House was healthier overall and saddening to know that so much of what he had once enjoyed was slowly slipping away. He'd played the piano maybe twice since they'd moved in—that Wilson knew about—and neither time had been for terribly long. His guitars saw more use these days, as he could play them from the couch.

When he got up in the morning, Wilson knew House deliberately waited until he was in the kitchen to swing his leg down to the floor. Then he'd spend five or ten minutes massaging the limb until he could stand and keep it beneath him. Then the bathroom, where he relied on the special handrails in the shower and the towel rack near the toilet. Getting dressed was a process Wilson hadn't yet seen, but he knew House often sat down on the bed to accomplish it.

Shoes were a nightmare. His expensive Nikes—and their custom inserts made his day easier, but they were hell to get on and off. House's pained grunts were too often heard from down the hall as he slipped the shoe on and sank down on the bed to bend his leg at the knee and draw it close to him. Close enough to work the laces and not slide off the edge of the bed, or put any more strain on the leg itself. It wasn't just the missing muscle, but the painful adhesions that had formed in the ruined valley of flesh. Nerves that had been severed when the muscle had been removed; corresponding impulses that still fired within the brain even though they had been forever separated from his body.

Wilson spit out the mouthwash and turned the water at the sink off before stripping and climbing into the shower. He washed quickly, grateful for the warm water and the way it relaxed his muscles after the long day.

Dressed in his McGill t-shirt and cotton pajama pants he threw his clothes in the hamper and threw the covers back on the bed. He settled his pager and cell phone on the table, and briefly made a check of the time—11:06—while he considered what to do about House. His leg was well supported; a night on the couch wouldn't be too rough on him. On the other hand, he distinctly recalled House had taken on a patient before noon. Odds were good that sometime in the night his team would call. He couldn't remember seeing either his phone or pager sitting on the table. Or anywhere in sight. He'd have to wake House to locate them, anyway. Unless he wanted to hunt for them himself when the call came in later. Decision made, he turned on the bedside lamp and killed the overhead on his way out the door. Padding lightly on the carpeted runner down the hall, he flicked on the ceiling fan light in the living room and listened to House groan loudly.

"Rise and shine, snookums." He greeted, and smirked at the annoyed look House gave him. "Time for bed." He amended.

"You woke me up to go to bed?" House asked groggily.

"Yes." Wilson took the blanket from House as he sat up, and folded it neatly before throwing it back onto the couch. While House shifted his leg to the floor Wilson shut TiVo down, and turned the tv off. "Did you eat?" he asked patiently while House gained his feet slowly.

"Wasn't hungry." House murmured faintly. Wilson straightened up the coffee table while House limped toward the entry way. He rifled through his jacket pockets until he produced both phone and pager before stumping down the hallway. Wilson let him make his way down to the bedroom alone. House needed space to work out the stiffness from sleeping all evening. Maybe even a shower to help soothe the leg. Wilson felt his worry increase a notch, when he remembered House's swollen legs, but aside from his gait being a little more ponderous he seemed to have no trouble. Rubbing the back of his neck, he rummaged through the stack of mail on the counter top until he came up with a new oncology journal and then shut the lights off as he slid silently back down the hall. Half-perusing his journal, he reflexively looked up to find the bathroom door was partially closed. House had opted to shower, then. Wilson knew he'd never, ever bring it up—but the bathroom door was always left ajar in case House fell and needed help.

It was the one and only sign of vulnerability the man had ever left for him to see.

Sinking into bed with his journal, he flipped absently through the pages until he came across an article on stem-cell research that looked half way interesting. Lulled by the droll article, and the weariness of a long day, it wasn't long before Wilson was dozing off. The creak of the bathroom door opening drew him to wakefulness, and he blinked to see House across the hall sinking down onto his bed; propping his foot up on a bedpillow while the therapeutic one cushioned his knee. He looked to have brought the icepacks with him as well. Closing the journal, he tossed it on the table near the side of the bed and turned the lamp off. He pulled the covers up around his shoulders, and wiggled to lie on his side. With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes and snuggled into his pillow. In House's room, the light was snapped off and House's gruff voice called across the hall.

"Night, Wilson."

He smiled into the darkness, eyes still closed. "G'night, House."

The sharp, buzzing rattle of a pager clattering woke Wilson at ten to four. He'd sat up abruptly, long accustomed to calls in the night—but was relieved to find it wasn't his own pager demanding attention. Wilson remained still, waiting to see if House would wake enough to answer it. But House didn't stir, and Wilson finally slid out of bed and stumbled to House's bedside to snatch the pager off the table and silence it. He checked the message, unsurprised to find the message read _'code blue rm 411'_. House's patients almost always suffered some sort of cardiac event in the course of treatment.

"House?" he said aloud, and smiled when House snorted and tried to turn over, muttering something incomprehensible. "House—" he repeated, sitting down on the bed to poke him in the shoulder.

"Whaa?" he asked sleepily. His eyes remained closed, though, and Wilson sighed loudly.

"Your team's looking for you. Patient coded."

"Hmm?"

"_House_." Wilson tossed the pager at him, and watched House's eyes blink open in surprise when the pager landed on his chest. "Patient. Code."

"Why didn't you say so?" House demanded irritably, as he sat up and snatched his cell off the table. He dialed the nurses' station near diagnostics and waited impatiently for someone to answer. Back in his own room, Wilson threw himself back into bed and pulled a pillow over his head while House berated Foreman about calling him in the dark hours of the night because a patient coded.

"—what do you expect me to do about it? Well, just get him stable and keep him that way. I'll be there around eight."

"You're not going in?" Wilson called in surprise, having pulled the pillow down after House had hung up.

"Not unless you want to drive me there right now. I thought I'd be nice and let you sleep in." Judging by the resonating sound of plastic on wood, the faint squeak of bedsprings and the billowing of linen, House had flung his phone back on the table and was getting out of bed. Across the hall, Wilson could see the bathroom light go on followed by the sound of urine hitting water.

"You don't need me to drive." Wilson protested—feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "You can—"

"I do if I can't walk really well." House admitted quietly as he shut the water off in the sink, and Wilson sat up in bed as House flicked the light in the bathroom off and used the wall to limp back down the hall. "And probably shouldn't drive."

"Edema worse?"

"s'tingling." House muttered faintly as he disappeared into his room and flopped back down on the mattress.

Wilson sighed unhappily, and pulled at his lip. "Anything numb?"

"No."

"House—"

"It'll be fine for another couple of hours." House said shortly.

Wilson felt the urge to check out House's newly presenting edema like it was embedded into his DNA, so strong was the need; but he'd already examined everything he could at home. They'd need to do a better workup at the hospital to figure out what was going on. Within minutes of the code, the apartment was silent again. House's breathing had slowed as he'd slipped back into sleep, and Wilson was alone in the dark with his nameless fears. He leaned back in the pillows and tried to reassure himself that House didn't seem too concerned about waiting til morning. A glance at the alarm glowing in the dark showed it was not even 4:30 yet. Sighing heavily, he wondered if he would even be able to relax again. He sighed again as he reached over to turn the lamp on, remembering the way he'd drifted off while reading the article earlier. Taking care to minimize the noise, he slowly turned page after page. Somewhere between the article on stem cell research and trials on cisplatin he felt himself sinking deeper into the pillows. Smiling in relief, he felt his fingers go limp and his body slacken as sleep took him.

The alarm woke him next, pulling him from sleep just before seven. The magazine was stuck to his cheek; damp with drool, it was plastered into the stubble enough that he winced as he pulled it free and set it was snoring loudly across the hall, and it was just bright enough that Wilson could make out the bare tree branches beyond the glass in the silvery light. He sat up slowly, watching the frost that had crept over the window panes and listening to the sound of traffic in the street beyond. He sighed, stretched, and climbed out of bed reluctantly. Shivering, he gathered his clothes for the day and retreated to the bathroom to dress in the chill.

"House." He called loudly to be heard even in House's room; smirking as he selected a tie and expertly knotted it without looking. "Get up, it's past seven."

"I'm up." House mumbled automatically, and Wilson bit his lip as he left the bathroom to tear the blankets out of House's reach.

"Come on." He prodded. "Time to get up. Your patient's waiting. I made coffee."

House glowered at him, and Wilson left him to creep up at his own pace. He returned to the bathroom again to shave. By the time House was on his feet, he'd finished in the bathroom and left House to dress in peace. He poured himself a mug of coffee, and made one for House to go in a travel mug.

Back in the bedroom, he grabbed his own pager and cell; pausing to call in to his service and take note of any urgent messages left by the on-call last night. So far, so good. It was looking like a good morning. For him at least.

"House?" he called, and was rewarded by a faint squeak of the door hinges, and then House's uneven step down the hall. "You 'bout ready?" he asked as House made his entry into the kitchen. He was still barefoot; he held both shoes and socks in his left hand and sank down on one of the kitchen stools before offering both to Wilson wordlessly.

"You're asking me for help?" Wilson asked dryly. He took a sip of his coffee before setting the mug down on the counter and motioned House to swing his feet up onto the other stool. Given the edema, the nocturia—even if getting up in the middle of the night to pee was normal for middle aged men, he had noticed an increase in the frequency—and now the rare request for help; Wilson felt a pit form in his stomach.

"What's going on?" he asked quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: My writing ebbs and flows with my real life. This chapter brought to you by _Smashing Pumpkins 'The End is the Beginning is the End.'_  
Because it worked somehow.

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Holding House's foot in his hands, Wilson surveyed the edema dispassionately before he reluctantly began putting the shoes on. It had subsided somewhat; though the puffiness stretched the seams of a new pair of socks. Above him, House shifted uncomfortably as Wilson first tied one shoe and then the other.

"Well?" Wilson asked finally, and noted the way House shied from his gaze. Softening his expression, Wilson set his feet on the floor and got up again; staring intensely at House. He took in House's tousled appearance; his slightly bloodshot blue eyes, grayish pallor and downcast expression. But more importantly, he could see the faintest outlines of jugular venous distension in the great vein of his neck.

Congestive heart failure.

The edema, the nocturia, even House's increasing restiveness. With a flash of insight, he understood; House _did_ know what was wrong. He'd probably known for some time, and hadn't said anything. His thoughts raced with the probable symptoms and causes and outcomes until he felt winded. In the silence of the room, he struggled to calm the whirling vortex of his thoughts until, finally, he thought himself calm enough to speak without losing his temper.

"How long?" he asked quietly. Standing uncomfortably before him, House looked away as he snatched his jacket off the back of the chair. He pulled the fleece on and zipped it up firmly. House was thinner, Wilson noted absently. Probably chilled easily. He felt numb.

"How long what?" House asked evasively, and Wilson sighed raggedly.

"How long have you known?" he asked again. He could see the struggle in House's face; see his friend weigh the risks and the benefits of letting Wilson share the knowledge of what was killing him a moment, a day, a week at a time.

"How long have I known, or how long do I have?" House asked quietly after a moment, and Wilson felt his heart swell anxiously. He swallowed his discomfort and forced himself to answer.

"How long have you known?"

"About three months." House leaned uncomfortably against the island in the kitchen and Wilson remembered the edema in his legs probably made it uncomfortable for him to stand for long periods.

Not that he'd ever liked standing in one position for very long. Resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck, he stared at the floor for a long moment before looking up at House again in despair.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, not entirely able to hide the hurt in his voice.

House shrugged, and Wilson tried not to be hurt further by the gesture. "Figured you'd find out soon enough."

"I could have—" he began, only to stop; choking on the words that tumbled through his mind. _Helped. Gone to appointments. Done more laundry or driven to work or—_

"How advanced?" he asked finally, trying to remain clinically detached.

"Class III-IV."

Wilson winced; trying not to feel as though he was reeling out of control. Everything fit.

"Left or right sided?" he asked faintly.

"Bilateral."

Wilson winced, then forced himself to speak. "We could get you on the transplant list—" he began, only to pause when House shook his head.

"I don't qualify. My liver and kidney values are already elevated. It'd have to be a multi-organ transplant. And those don't grow on trees." House gave him a ghost of a smile.

"What about a pacemaker?"

"Hypertrophic myocardium."

Wilson felt despair rise in him; he couldn't decide for the moment which was worse, House's almost kindly expression or the way he clinically recited the particulars of his case.

Before Wilson could gather his composure to ask more questions—House's pager chirped. He studied it intently before clipping it to his belt and looking up at Wilson.

"Can I get a ride?" he asked quietly, and after another uncomfortable silence Wilson nodded.

"Should you be working?" he asked in a low voice as House started for the door. He froze; unable or unwilling to turn and face Wilson in that moment.

"I'll be just as likely to die by going to work as I would be sitting here on the couch. But this guy probably won't last as long."

Wilson let him go then; knowing House needed to put some literal distance between them after everything he'd disclosed that morning. He scrubbed at his face wearily; as though to wake himself up from the disaster he'd just walked into. Reaching out with one hand, he grasped the refrigerator's handle and gripped it for a long while. He relished in the way his knuckles blanched from red to white, and the way the muscles along his forearm flexed. _Clinging to life_, he thought wryly to himself. He snorted then, releasing the handle with a sad sigh and tears in his eyes. He turned slowly; any thoughts of collecting lunches for himself and House put out of his mind. Struggling to wipe away the last of his tears, he numbly made himself gather his briefcase and step into his shoes and walk monotonously out to the car. House was already seated in the passenger seat of his Volvo. Seat belt buckled, window down, radio on one of his pre-sets and tapping out the base line on the passenger side door. He glanced at Wilson and away again as he slipped his briefcase onto the backseat and eased himself into the driver's side.

Wilson was silent for a moment before slipping on his shades and starting the car. As he backed out of the garage, he forced himself to speak lightly.

"Will you at least let me take a look at your file? It can't hurt to have another set of eyes on it, right?"

House gave him a withering look for a long moment, but nodded when he turned back to stare out the window. Wilson sighed in relief; maybe there was something House had missed. Something that could be fixed with diet and medication and time.

House did, on occasion, have a tendency to overreact when it came to his own health.

Or so he told himself.

Wilson had driven to work on autopilot; he was lost in his thoughts and House to the case. Despite the deafening bass on the classic rock station House had selected, he seemed engrossed in whatever data the team had sent to him on his phone. Still, House had been cognizant enough to notice when Wilson had pulled into his parking space. Moving faster than his current condition belied, House slapped the handicapped placard on the rearview mirror and stepped out of the car in one swift movement. The_ zing_ of his seatbelt recoiling jolted Wilson from his thoughts before House slammed the door and limped gamely toward the clinic entrance. Sighing, Wilson put his face in his hands and scrubbed vigorously before unsnapping his own belt and rising from the car. He collected his briefcase and pressed the button on his key fob before stepping up onto the sidewalk slowly. Ahead of him, he could see House's canted form disappearing beyond the frosted glass doors. He almost smiled then, imagining House's caustic voice berating his fellows the second they came into sight.

He felt the tears well up again—but had no time to dwell on them as his phone chirped with a page. He blinked swiftly, once, twice; withdrawing his phone to find the first text of the day from his assistant. Steeling himself, he drew his shoulders back unconsciously and stepped into the clinic. Pausing at the front desk to check with the day nurse, he took the fistful of notes she offered him along with a large blue chart and a larger manila folder of imaging results. House's file.

He raised his eyes to find House's piercing gaze across the lobby near the elevators. He met House's eyes and nodded slightly; pleased by the unspoken request he saw there.

He had House's file, and more importantly, House's trust.

He just hoped he had enough strength for the both of them.


End file.
